#its the reason why i was able to get a job

[cheralith]

vogue (chapter two) — boss/fashion designer!geto suguru x reader ; REASONS

series synopsis ; even without much knowledge in the world of fashion, you decide that it's in your best interest to work for the country's fashion magazine powerhouse to propel your career as a journalist. however, you begin to second-guess your decision when you're faced with the grueling labor of its one and only editor-in-chief who expects nothing less of perfection. can your efficiency meet his standards or will you be out the door before you can even blink? masterlist

contains ; editor-in-chief!geto, fashion designer!geto, assistant!reader, assistant turned muse!reader, platonic roommate!ino, modern au, angst, slowburn, co-workers-to-lovers, some crack if you squint

chapter synopsis ; it's chaos at kaizen magazine and the entirety of its staff, including its editor-in-chief is stressed. you meet a particular individual at the coffeehouse who seems all too the familiar for some reason whose strange words encourage you to dabble in the world of modelling in a desperate moment.

chapter tags/warnings; she/her pronouns, afab!reader, blood mention (reader gets mild cut on finger), reader models but no mention of body descriptions, some parts not edited

chapter word count: 8.9k

now playing ; reasons - minnie riperton

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Somehow, you think that your boss has it out for you more than usual this week. Granted, he’s been giving you a stink eye at all times since you first started, but you’re getting the gut feeling it’s more prominent this time around. Be it the upcoming charity gala tomorrow or the stress of pushing out this month’s issue due to some last minute… adjustments—you wouldn’t be surprised if Geto is using you as his punching bag for his own relief. 

He has never yelled at you, per se, but his soft-spoken insults and scoldings hurt you far more than anything. Whether it be you stumbling ever so slightly over your own two feet in front of him or something as miniscule as simply accidentally taking out a pen that’s lacking ink when jotting notes, Geto always seems to have some sort of reprimand at the ready. 

“Why is this packet stapled so awkwardly? You could be covering vital information.”

“Coffee spoons exist for a reason. There’s no reason why I should be using a dessert spoon for my latte.”

“I do wish you spoke with less ‘um’s and ‘uh’s every now and then. It’s quite bothersome.”

You just wish that the job application had listed “Must take on editor-in-chief’s emotional baggage 24/7.” if you knew that this job would just be mentally draining as it is physically. And to think it’s only been only around four and a half months since you’ve started! Obviously, being editor-in-chief of one of the largest and powerful magazines in the nation is going to be mentally depleting, but is there such a need to take it out on the poor associates? 

Your mind reflects back to witnessing an intern accidentally running into Geto amidst last night’s crisis when the office was busy about attempting to piece together the issue into one piece before the publisher’s deadline today, the intern’s impact causing a confetti of cut-out paper to fly about everywhere and making Geto’s afternoon matcha pick-me-up splatter green all over his cream white top. He had gently told the shaking intern, amidst his many apologies, that it was no worries before quietly telling you to head down to HR to terminate him by the end of this week. 

Chills run down your spine when you remember how quickly Geto’s smile faded and gentle eyes disappeared as they morphed into amethyst daggers the moment his back was turned to the intern. Though… you do give credit to the intern for making his shirt still somehow look fabulous with the earthy green splatter—a feat only a former fashion model was able to do. 

You don’t remember when the last time you came home before 11:00pm was or when was the last time you ate three complete meals in a day and not just crumbs of convenience store snacks. It’s been such a hectic week wrapping up the month’s issue that you’re suddenly back to your college days slurping ramen and drinking any drink that contains any amount of caffeine to give back your energy. 

You hear the beep of the microwave sing through the kitchen right next to yours and Manami’s desks, signaling your instant ramen was done, but before you can even get up, you hear the muffled sound of a something being broken inside Geto’s office, causing you and Manami to jump. Gazes suddenly flicking toward each other, with neither of you daring to make another move, a moment of complete silence drifts by before you dare to breathe out ever so quietly and almost instantaneously, Manami shouts, “Not it!” 

“Not—oh, fine…” A groan drags out of you and your eyes roll as you brush off the prideful look Manami has on her face. 

With great hesitation, you avert your direction to the frosted glass window of Geto’s office that sits a little too politely between you and Manami’s desks. Somehow, with each step you take, the impending doom that sits at the bottom of your churning stomach grows bigger and bigger and you can just barely brace yourself for the scolding that you’re about to receive—even if the cause of Geto’s frustration may have not even been at your own fault.

Your shaking knuckles go to rap at his door. A grumbled “come in” barely seeps its way through the door. You allow yourself with great reluctance to open the door to reveal a heavily breathing Geto Suguru, veins visible on his neck and forehead from the pent-up irritation that has been boiling for the past few days with the double whammy of the charity gala and the month’s issue attempting to be push out on time, which may not even be the case given that many columns had to be changed due to a specific supermodel’s recent scandal.

Upon entering your boss’s office, it was near impossible to miss the shattered glass of cucumber water that was clearly thrown at the wall behind himself, a splotch of the carpet now darkened slightly from the original color. Geto caved inwards towards his desk, his blazer from his three-piece set now draped messily over his chair and his usually neatly-made hair a little more frazzled out of its hair band than usual. On his desk were an array of magazine splits with a pile of cut-outs dedicated to said model. It startles you how many pages she had appeared in given how hefty the pile was.

“Why couldn’t she behave after the issue was printed…” Geto seethes under his breath as a poor page of the magazine draft crumples under his grip. 

You can see in his trash can the tabloid that featured the supermodel, who allegedly slandered her fellow upcoming star of a colleague backstage of a recent fashion show with the cameras still rolling in order to document the behind the scenes of all the glitz and glamour. While it was normal for models to shade one another to fight for the spotlight, her remarks in particular were rather nasty and brutish, so much so that it caused outrage amongst the public and with the latter supermodel’s fans who ended up revealing her rather… dishonorable social media presence. 

Needless to say, having her as the starlight of this month’s issue before it entered the public eye would prove disastrous for Kaizen. She decorated a large portion of the magazine from front cover to back, but the magazine couldn’t afford to have such a trashy person as their graphic ambassador—especially since there has been little to no dirt on the magazine up until now. Geto works hard to make sure any possible slander against the magazine was dealt with as soon as possible before the public could hear about it. You didn’t know how—preferably, you don’t want to know—but he does it somehow.

But the news and the outrage regarding the supermodel had been leaked only a mere eight days before the issue was to be printed, giving the entire department only eight days to fix up the issue before the deadline. To make matters worse—the issue had to be sent to the publisher before the charity gala, which were both on the same day, Friday, meaning that everything had to be finalized before 3pm that day to give ample time for the start of the gala’s last-minute organization at 5:00pm before it started at 7:30pm and for the publishing company to print the thousands of copies to be released to the city come Saturday morning.

It’s Thursday, the day before D-Day, and the office just reached noon. You have yet to eat properly, given that all you ate this morning amidst the morning rush (Geto demanded asked you to arrive at the office an hour earlier to compose the most time to work on the issue) were two pieces of toasted bread and a badly-made cup of instant coffee. 

You stare at the broken crystal on the dampened floor before going back to get the dustpan from the kitchen. Without a word, you clean up the remnants of Geto’s frustration quietly so as to not poke the beast even further with one wrong move, but of course, you somehow end up slicing your finger on a stray piece of glass. 

A loud yelp from your lips slips through the tight atmosphere of Geto’s office and blood draws fast, so fast that a few drops of crimson fall and miserably stain the pristine white carpet.

You swiftly poke your finger in your mouth and suck on it before more can ooze out, but unfortunately, your little titter was enough to break Geto out of his trance and snap his head back towards you. He spots the splotches of red on his carpet first, but then averts his gaze to you with your fingertip between your lips.

“What happened?” he urges as he approaches you. “Did you cut yourself?” 

You nod shyly, a little startled at how quickly his concern for you came to him given that your presence usually arises some sort of mild vex from him. “I apologize for staining the carpet. I’ll get a cleaner right away for it.”

“No need,” Geto mutters before beginning the dust the glass remnants himself. “I’ll call them myself. Just fix yourself up. First-aid kit is in the kitchen. Go get a bandaid—quickly.” 

For a split second, you swear you could’ve seen a grain of sympathy in his normally-cold gaze, but the illusion quickly dissipates the moment you see his eyes harden again before he snaps at you for staring. 

“Go now. Before your finger gets infected. You can’t use your hand properly with an infected finger.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nod lightly and dash out of his office, fighting horribly the urge to mutter curses at him under your breath. 

The cut proves rather long and deep, you notice, as Manami gently rolls a strip of tape down a page of gauze on it as she chides you akin to a mother to take care of yourself properly and that this isn’t the week to be injuring yourself like a child. It takes up at least two-thirds of your right index finger and you’re just hoping you’ll be able to use your right hand as efficiently as possible given you still have an extensive list of emails to still send out. 

Two hours somehow pass by quicker than expected but you know that your actual day isn’t even halfway done, knowing well that you won’t be clocking out until later in the evening after everyone is gone from the office. For the most part, it looks as though some spare stock images of well-known models were able to suffice the pieces that the scandalous one left them in the columns, but there was one that needed a more specific set of poses given that it was a perfume ad and unlike the other columns, the bottle had to be held in a certain manner that would prove hard for the photo editors to attempt.

Given that the work day was ending, there weren’t many models on-call that could do a last-minute shoot on time and the magazine was running out of time. Geto… was running out of time. 

And if Geto, who was known for being rather cool-headed and rational most days, was stressed, that only meant the rest of the office had to follow—whether they liked it or not. Ultimately, his stress became infectious and it was hard to keep a mellow mind in the days filled with chaos. You were already stressed on a day-to-day basis being his junior assistant, but you were basically required to amp it up to the max with the last-minute editing of the magazine and the charity gala.

You’re in line to get Geto’s afternoon pick-me-up, with the minor adjustment of two extra espresso shots for the kick of caffeine to get him through the rest of the working hours. You can hear your name being called up, but with how drained you’ve been from the past few days, the granola bar and Redbull you had for lunch today proves not to be the most efficient source of energy and you end up tumbling over your own two wobbling legs when you rise from the waiting bench.

You crash into the chest of someone taller than you who was passing by and just barely manage to avoid the escaping coffee from the cup of the person you bumped into. Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove well for the latter, as the remainder of the coffee settles itself on the front of their shirt Panic sets in swiftly and you start bumbling apologies left and right before you can even look up to see who exactly you’re apologizing to.

When you do, you’re met with a pair of eyes hidden behind darkened sunglasses ogling at you. It struck you as rather odd—considering it was the middle of winter and that the sun was hiding behind the grayed clouds today. Maybe it was just some sort of fashion statement? 

But it’s not the glasses that captivate you. It’s the snowy locks of white hair that belong to a rather tall and leggy figure that belong to it. And despite the pure ivory, he still looks incredibly young. A man of at least six feet and three inches stands before you—a height that easily can rival your boss’s. He’s adorned in a simplistic outfit; black dress shoes with matching slacks held by a glimmering silver buckle, topped with a cool white collared shirt that’s now evidently ruined by the horribly large light brown stain you caused from his coffee.

And judging by the stitching and material of the shirt, you know damn well that the shirt isn’t cheap.

“I-I-I…” you blubber out, teary eyes widened in horror at how fast the stain spreads and how much attention you’re getting from the cafe’s customers. “I’m so sorry…”

The silence that penetrates through from onlookers is terrible and you think you’re getting a fever from how hot your face is burning up. 

Thankfully, the man breaks through it with a soft, (dare you say—handsome?) laugh. “I was looking for an excuse to get rid of this shirt anyways,” he says. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

What he says baffles you and your apologies suddenly transform into sounds of confusion to his amusement. “Huh?”

“It’s been two years since it was in season, it’s finally time to throw the old girl out,” the man shrugs nonchalantly.

Suddenly, in front of all the leering eyes of the customers in the coffeehouse, he begins to unbutton his stained shirt and you can only watch in horror with the rest of everyone else. While he still did have one last modest garment beneath the shirt, it was still a sleeveless white undershirt that showed off his visibly sculpted and lean biceps that made a couple of the women in the coffeeshop form heart eyes and bite their lips.

The man flickered his eyes, now shown to be a brilliant shade of crystal blue, to you from atop his glasses and a glint of playfulness shone through, along with a whimsical grin. “Maybe I should’ve been a little more decent. Hope you don’t mind.”

You think that the heat that flushes your cheeks is no longer from embarrassment but… bashfulness?

You attempt to gather what to say in this rather awkward moment, but the bell of the entrance door rings and in comes a young man with spiked noir locks adorned in a midnight blue suit with a visible frown on his face. His eyes skitter through the coffeehouse before landing on not exactly you… but the man before you.

“What the hell Gojo?” the young man scolds as he stomps his way over. “You said you weren’t gonna take long, so why are you stripping in a cafe?”

Gojo… why does that name sound so familiar for some reason? Now that you think about it, the entirety of the man himself seems so vaguely familiar, but you swore you’ve never seen such a unique human being before in real life.

The man turns his head over as he crumples the stain garment in his hands. He perks up in delight at the sight of him, contrary to his furrowed-brow companion. “Megumi! Sorry bud, got wrapped up in a little accident here. Take this and chuck it in the trash, will ya?”

Before “Megumi” can protest, “Gojo” tosses the shirt to him and exclaims for the onlooking baristas to make him another drink if they can. A teenage girl nods excitedly and dashes back to gather the order for the handsome, sleeveless stranger. 

Megumi hisses an annoyed insult under his breath before glaring one last time at the taller man and searching for a nearby trash can. The man turns to you again with the same smile that has a lick of mischief to it. “Sorry ‘bout my intern. He’s usually a little sour, so don’t mind him. You okay though?” 

“Uh…” your eyes glance around and notice that the commotion in the coffeehouse has started up again. “Yes, thank you. I apologize again for not watching my step.”

He chuckles. “I think you’ve apologized enough. Again, don’t worry about it—it was an old shirt anyways. Has anyone told you you’re quite cute?” 

You choke on your saliva. What an odd thing to say in such a moment.

“Wh-what?” you stifle out.

“You’re rather pretty,” the man continues, the same grin still plastered on his face; as if he means every word he says. “Have you modelled before?” 

Your jaw is somehow melded into an image that replicates a gaping fish. Somehow, you can’t find the correct words to say at this moment. And it’s not quite like you’ve never been flirted with before, but for some reason, the way that this “Gojo” says it, it doesn’t quite have that tone of flattery, but more like… offering something?

“Thank you?” you say with half-confidence. “And no… sorry.” 

“Ah, what a shame,” he sighs wholeheartedly. “Have you considered it though?”

You shake your head, and you’re appalled that the gesture only makes his eyes light up again and his smile grow wider. 

“You should try it someday! You know what—hold on. Where’s my wallet?”

The man shoves his hands in his pants pockets to attempt to look for it, but the intern from earlier suddenly appears and shows off his phone to his senior. It visibly reads 2:34 pm.

“The meeting started,” the intern seethes. “We’re late… again.”

“Oh shoot,” the tall man snaps his fingers with pursed lips. “Alright, we can get going soon. But can you do me a favor and get my wal—”

The intern glowers at him. “No. Let’s go.”

You’re surprised at how much guts the intern has, who seems to be rather younger than you by a few years and certainly significantly younger than the man before you, considering he’s the one to command his superior so strictly. Usually, it’s the other way around, is it not? Unless you’re doing something wrong?

“Aw, but—”

“Gojo. If we’re late again, the board of trustees might kick you off, remember?” Megumi says as he pinches the back of his superior’s undershirt and begins to drag him away from you. 

The mysterious man pouts childishly and whines. “Ohhh c’mon! They’re not serious! You know those old geezers are practically terrified of me!” 

You’ve never seen such a grown man act rather foolishly before, but you suppose there’s a first time for everything. As you watch him be dragged away by the intern, he salutes a goodbye to you with an all-knowing wink to finish things off before he’s shoved into a black Cadillac in nothing but his undershirt for a top amidst the chilly winter air. 

As you attempt to process what on earth just happened, the young teenage barista calls at you suddenly. 

“Hey! Did that Michizane Sugawara guy leave? The one with the white hair?” she asks you, pointing to her own brown hair. She holds what looks to be milk with a hint of coffee in it, judging by how there’s just barely a tint of brown in the plastic cup.

“Oh… him.” 

Wasn’t his name Gojo? There’s no way you could’ve misheard “Michizane Sugawara” as “Gojo” you think, with the six other syllables just simply flying in from the window out of nowhere. Unless the fatigue has finally caught up to you and you’re hearing things wonky. 

“Yeah. It seemed like he was in a rush of sorts.” 

The barista leans over the counter to see and eventually shrugs. She pushes two cups towards you—your original coffee for Geto you nearly forgot about and the newly-made coffee for the mystery man. “You can just have it then. Not too sure you’ll like it though, it’s pretty sugary, but I don’t want it to go to waste.”

Your eyebrows perk up. With how much suffering you’ve been enduring lately from your work, you might as well indulge yourself in a sweet treat as you think you’ve earned it. Plus, with how much there is more to complete for today, you’re most definitely going to need the caffeine and the communal coffee pot isn’t exactly acquired for your tastebuds. 

When you finally settle yourself down back in the comfort of your desk after the coffeehouse fiasco, you take a soft sip of the free coffee…

… only to pull a face at how ridiculously sweet it is. The barista was right. You think that there’s probably only a drop of coffee in the entire cup melded with milk and a variety of syrups and sugar. And to think this was for a grown man? 

Sighing miserably, you pour the free drink down the kitchen drain, ignoring the glob of sugar that slugs out of it before you return back to misery.

“And there’s absolutely no models left that are in proximity to us? In any of our partnering agencies?” Geto asks as he rubs his temple.

The head of the PR team shakes his head, ashamed. “All of our current models are either abroad or they’re simply unavailable as of this moment.”

He mutters to himself before gritting his teeth. “And did you try bribing them with additional pay?” 

“We tried, sir,” the head says. “And with other compensation like a guaranteed column for next month’s column or brand partnerships, but they wouldn’t budge.”

Geto sighs loudly and slides a hand down his face in exasperation, fatigue visible. It’s currently 5:51pm and the magazine has yet to find a model to try and replace the perfume advertisement. The partnering modelling firms had absolutely no models to offer at the last minute and it was too late to try and get in contact with freelance models considering communication with them proved much more difficult than those in agencies. 

“What about recycling an older ad with a similar posed model and just photoshopping the fragrances out?” Geto suggests. 

It gets shot down immediately to his dismay. “Unfortunately, that’d be violating some copyright issues.”

You watch with fidgety hands as you stand next to Manami as your boss and the PR team examines the idea board carefully, trying ways to fill in the missing column. Of course, you could chime in with your own ideas, but with how stressed Geto is currently, you didn’t want to risk adding fuel to an already violent fire. 

Geto’s eyes scan the board left to right, taking in every single piece pinned onto it for some sort of genius idea, but nothing comes to him on the third try. A rigid silence fills the meeting room that keeps everyone on edge, anticipating his next move. When Geto finishes his fourth scan, in comes another blank page, until the corner of his eye catches you standing idly in the corner. 

His gaze moves to fixate on your squirming self as you attempt to look anywhere but his stare. It proves unsuccessful, however, considering that Geto calls your name and motions you to come forward.

Geto presents you like a doll of sorts to the PR team. “(Y/N) here seems to have similar proportions to her,” Geto says, keeping two firm, large hands on your shoulders. You shiver at the strange contact “What if we…?” 

One of the team members catches his drift uneasily.

“I don’t know Geto,” he starts as he stares at you incredulously, as if you’ve grown three heads all of a sudden. “Does your junior assistant even have any modelling experience?”

“Well no,” Geto confirms. “However, we’ve attempted to use all that we have available. I think this is our last resort.”

Somehow, you’re a little offended that your being is just simply a “last resort” to him, even if it is true. 

The PR team’s director's shifty eyes land on each of his team members with visible hesitation. With a cracked voice, he softly announces, “Well, technically speaking, there is… one more option.” 

Geto cocks his brow, his hands still firmly locked onto your shoulders with a whisper of a tighter grasp, as if you’re some sort of scurrying mouse ready to escape his hold at any given moment. “Well?”

The director’s mouth opens and closes for a given moment, attempting to choose the right words to say.

“Technically, we don’t have to use just our partnering agencies,” he begins quietly. There’s now a visible sweat misted on his receding hairline. 

The way Geto’s eyes narrow so suddenly makes everyone hold their breath for what comes next. Because, from the looks of it, everyone seems to know what the director is going to suggest and Geto’s reaction.

 “We’ve got contracts with every single management in the city. What? Are you saying we reach out to other cities’ talent managements? That’s rather tedious.”

“No, sir, that’s… not what I meant,” the director swallows thickly. “There’s technically one agency that we don’t have a con—”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Geto’s stern words ring loud and clear. While his voice volume is still the same as always—soft with an obvious austere to it—his words are tight and evident. The emphasis of the curse word gives more than just a sharp edge to it, leaving no room for negotiation. 

Yet, one of the female team members pries anyway. She was hired around the same time you were, but because she didn’t interact with Geto as much as you did, so she didn’t know about how no meant an absolute no when it came from Geto Suguru just yet. Poor thing.

“But this agency has an abundance of models to choose from at their hand!” she exclaims with wide, desperate eyes. “I do think it’s a better decision to contact Infi—”

“I said no.” Geto turns to her and gives her a hard scowl before she can even finish her words. “Do not even say the name around my presence. I have forbidden any contact with that agency for a good reason. They only bring trouble and mayhem and disorder. Remember the Mei Mei scandal? The Kinji Hakari incident?” 

Everyone except for you tightens their shoulders and lips at the mention of the particular models. This isn’t the first time you’ve been kept in the dark, since you’re still just as a new hire as the female team member, but something is telling you that this news is much more hush-hush than the other gossip you’ve heard. Geto sighs again, their tensing bodies giving him a clear answer.

“We have done well without them for how long this magazine has existed for the past few years under my leadership,” Geto says. “I see no need to get in contact with them when we have a perfectly good substitute right here.”

His hands pat your shoulders again to properly show you off once more. The PR team goes to scan you up and down with their beady eyes, mutters of half-confident approvals and some other comments that you’re a little offset by rumouring around the meeting room. 

The director eventually sighs and gives in, considering that there weren’t many hours left in the day and that he and his team just wanted to go home. “Okay, we’ll use your junior assistant for the replacement shoot. We’ll tell Miguel, the photographer, and the fashion stylists to get ready for her.” 

Geto turns to Manami. “Go with them. Just ensure that the creative team will not cause a fuss with the choosing of the model. We don’t have time to dabble in feuds now.”

Manami nods and begins to lead the PR team to the studio, leaving you and Geto in the awkward quietness of the meeting room. Eventually, he releases you from his grasp and lets you breathe normally once they all leave. 

Geto leans on the table and returns to rubbing his forehead, muttering to himself at what he just did. You plant your stiff self back to your original position firmly.

“Sir,” you cough out with a voice crack with the lack of use from your voice. A heat rushes to your face and you clear your throat to properly speak. “Sir… I… don’t think I’m the right choice for this job.”

Geto lifts his head up from his hand and stares at you dully. “Excuse me?”

A shiver goes down your spine. Of course you forgot your consciousness and dared to question the Geto Suguru, editor-in-chief of the powerhouse fashion magazine in the country. But… even so. There were some limitations that you dared to even ponder about and though you were a lowly assistant, you still deserved to try and voice your own opinion on this matter. 

Especially since you’re going to be affected in more ways than one.

“I…” you start slowly. Your gaze meets the carpet of the room to try and ease yourself out of the intimidating stare of your boss. “I truly don’t think I’m the right fit for this particular feat. Like what they mentioned, I don’t have any modelling experience and I’m sure it’d cause the shoot to be more prolonged than it should be.”

“You don’t need modelling experience for this,” Geto begins. “I’m not asking you to be a model. I’m asking you to be a replacement.”

The familiar odd hurt singes at you again when Geto labels you as nothing more than a prop. Something about him shoving you in a magazine filled with well-experienced and trained models feels like cramming a piece of plain cardboard in a nearly-done puzzle, its individual pieces adorned carefully with each other to create something beautiful and ornate, only to be interrupted by a spare piece of something that just barely imitates it. You may have all the right curves and edges crafted by Geto’s hands, but you know that you don’t belong properly amidst the magazine at the end of the day.

The perfume ad takes up three pages of the entire magazine—two pages for the actual photoshoot and one for the description of it along with its reviews—not much in comparison to the articles written in it. But it’s still enough to composite a significant chunk for the magazine. And enough to make you feel overexposed to a public that in your rational mind, is not going to give you a second glance much more so than the actual product when reading the magazine. 

But right now, that unwanted attention is all you can think about. 

“But still—” you start with a tight throat. “Manami might be a better suit than I am. Or quite literally anyone in the office.” 

“Manami has been feeling under the weather as of recently,” Geto interrupts and shakes his head. “If we had more time, believe me, I’d be searching for a better fit for the ad as well, but right now, given the current predicament and since most of the employees have gone home, we don’t have many options left.”

Geto turns to you and though his face remains stony, his iris eyes gleam with a hint of desperation. 

“You’re my best choice right now, (Y/N).”

Time goes still for a moment and you can hear a voice echo in the back of your mind as Geto gazes at you. 

“Have you modelled before?” 

When you blink, a crystalline blue pair of eyes flashes through your vision all of a sudden. You step back a little, slightly startled at the hazy vision you have of the “Gojo” man from earlier and his proclamation to you.

The tone of the man’s voice echoes through your mind. In a typical male fashion, that sort of sentence would most likely be played off as a flirtatious intent. But the way that he said it made it seem like some sort of actual encouragement, like an urge of sorts for you. It felt genuine. Sincere, even, as if he wanted you to do it for no one but yourself. 

And though as of now, you’d technically be doing it for Geto… you can’t help but feel an urge just to try it to see how you yourself would like it. To see whether or not you’d actually fit into the mold of a “model”—even an amateur one. 

You suppose… that there’s a first time for everything.

Shuffling your feet, you swallow the last bit of qualms down and let most of your nerves go, choosing to settle in what could be as of this moment. Even if you’re not ready for it, you think you should at least try. 

And in the end, if not for Geto, perhaps for yourself.

You lift your head up and lock eyes with Geto’s with a more determined look on your face. The hesitation is still faintly there, but the ghost of it is overpowered by your resolve.

“Okay.”

“Alright, now peek your eyes over the newspaper a little bit, sweetheart! Make it playful!” the photographer chimes as he readjusts his position with his camera. 

The photoshoot set is a makeshift cafe, to properly highlight the coffee and sugar notes of the new fragrance you hold in your hand. The backdrop is a fake interior window of the cafe looking out into a winter wonderland. Makeup and clothing took awhile to prosper considering you had to take off your previous makeup and let the MUAs do their magic on you and that you had to test multiple layered clothing sets before the photographer approved of the final one appropriate for the shoot. It didn’t help that you put up a fight to keep your glasses on and that the MUAs had to attempt a look that would highlight your features with your glasses.

You can’t tell whether it’s the nerves of you modelling for the first time or the heat of the lights that’s making you flushed. Something about the flashes of lights felt almost exhilarating to you. It’s foreign, but somehow, they embrace your being like a long lost friend of sorts. You have yet to get used to the blinding white lights from the flashes, but you only have to endure it for a good hour or so. The repetitive mantra of “You’re just trying this out.” echoes in your mind over and over again, even though you already know you seem to not be cut out for this sort of position.

It’s much too hot in the studio, you feel your body being rather awkward, and you don’t appreciate the onlookers that watch your every move as you reposition yourself to the photographer’s demands. You’ve already knocked over a couple of fake cappuccino mugs since your limbs still aren’t working correctly and you can’t seem to make the right facial expression to your degree.

It’s clear your nervousness is evident, considering you can see Geto discussing quietly with the creative director as they examine you closely from the corners of your eyes. 

“She’s rather… stiff,” the creative director mutters. “You sure there wasn’t anyone on call?”

Geto hums monotonously as he watches as you attempt to find the right position to try and capture your side profile while showing off the perfume itself. “If there were, they would’ve been here by now.”

“Yes I understand, but,” the director fights the urge to wince as your bracelet gets caught in the chair handle. “I don’t know if this shoot will be proper enough to display in the zine this issue. Can’t we just talk with them and discuss moving the ad to next month’s?”

“No, they’re releasing it the same day the issue comes out. They want people to know about it as soon as possible,” Geto murmurs. “To ask that from us is to ask them to push back their release date.  We don’t have that sort of power.”

The creative director sighs and silences himself, wallowing himself in a state of doubt as he and Geto continue to watch the scene before them. Perhaps it’s the state of weariness that Geto has accumulated from the past few days, but he genuinely doesn’t think you’re doing too bad of a job for your first (and probably last time, given the anxiety still within you) time modelling. He thinks the angles of your face hit the light just right when it counts properly, and that the clothes that drape you fit you more than accordingly; it’s surprising given that there was no time to tailor them to properly suit you but somehow, you made it work.

There are certain moments that your nerves fade from view when the director asks you to make a certain facial expression. The little surprised face you make when you hold the perfume up to your face was most likely the money shot, but there were much more shots that could be used for the ad that he didn’t anticipate. 

There was one where your eyes stared directly into the camera from a three-fourths angle, a certain warmth to them compelling him to look further into you. Another one was a mild bokeh effect of you sipping coffee from a mug from a lower point of view, where the perfume was fully into view. But Geto was still somehow locked onto your figure from the background despite how crystal clear the bottle was. Either way, there was still a plethora of good shots to use despite you not being a professional model.

“But I do have to admit,” the creative director starts slowly, capturing Geto’s attention and breaking him from his gaze as he fixates on you repositioning yourself on the cafe bench, legs crossed to show off the mocha boots that adorned your calves. “She’s not really all that bad. I can see some potential in her.”

Geto’s body remains still, but his eyes shift to stare at the director from the corner of his eye, watching carefully as he examines you from the set. He narrows his purple eyes as he picks up on a mild lip bite from the creative director as you shed the trenchcoat to reveal a black fitted mini dress with a turtleneck, a vintage cowboy belt cinching your waist. While you’re still modestly covered, it’s the way you show off your long legs emphasized by the short skirt of the dress and the fitted heeled boots.

“I wonder if she’s single…” the director murmurs so softly that Geto just barely picks up on it.

“I completely forgot,” Geto interrupts rather loudly, making the director’s fixed stare falter as the shoot continues. “I believe I left a file in regards to the perfume’s licensing in the meeting room. Would you mind getting it for me? I’ll keep an eye on the shoot.”

The creative director’s brows raise. “O-oh! Yes, of course. I’ll be right back then.”

Geto watches as the director shuffles out of the room and out of view from you. Truth be told, the file was finalized a while ago. But something about how the director was looking at you made Geto wary of his intentions with you, if he had any at all.

Something about it made him a little aware that your temporary spotlight shone a bit brighter than he originally thought it’d be.

The shoot finishes up within the next hour, giving the team a good handful of images to choose from for the column before the issue is printed. Manami is with you in the dressing room as the MUAs carefully take off your makeup and reveal your raw face to everyone, peeling away the heavy amounts of concealer that hide the darkness embedding the rim of your undereyes.

“Christ, how many hours did you sleep last night?” she questions when you give a large yawn.

“I should be asking you that question,” you quietly remark back, studying her equally tired features. “If anything, you need the rest more than I do.”

Manami had been feeling quite ill as of recently, possibly due to the colder weather. She claimed that it was just the new diet she had been trying out to properly fit into the dress that she was planning to wear for the charity gala, but it was clear that no diet was capable of causing stuffy noses, consistent sneezing, and a mild fever. You had encouraged her to try and take some medicine and go home yesterday, but she specifically said that, “Geto will have a guillotine ready come tomorrow morning if I dare to even think about taking a day off right now.”

“I’m fine,” she sniffs with half-assurance as she snatches a tissue from nearby. “Besides, people say you burn more calories when you’re sick so hopefully I can lose another half inch off my waist by tomorrow.”

“Oh, so you admit you’re sick,” you point out with a mild smirk.

 “I-I’m not sick—!” she falters before her nose begins to twitch. “Ahchoo!”

You hum, ignoring her protests. It’s currently nearing seven in the evening, and you’re sure that work is just beginning to wrap up as of this moment. Thankfully, everyone agreed to do the work for the perfume ad tomorrow before the finalized issue is shipped to print, but you still had to edit some articles, as well as help Geto still gather materials for his newest fashion line that he only tended to work on in the evenings of the weekdays.

He leaves earlier than you and Manami do, since he often piles the nonsensical work to you and her. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left the office without another word considering he was attempting to push out his new line by the end of next month.

In the past few months, you can’t say your work as a journalist has improved since your time at Kaizen, but you can at least say that your friendship with Manami has blossomed and sailed a little more smoothly than your first few weeks of working with each other. She was still a little snippy towards those below her like the college interns and the other entry-level employees, but you were specifically her junior, so you suppose it gave you special access to a much more kind, yet still sassy, side of her.

You spot the paleness of Manami’s usually glossed lips and how fatigued she looked. It didn’t help that the dressing room was quite warm so she looked rather blushed in the face. She leans back on the couch and puts a hand over her eyes to block out the glaring white light of the vanity.

“God, shut that thing off,” she quips as she lazily wags a finger to the vanity lights. “Feels like I’m staring right into the Sun itself.”

The lights are turned off and the room dims. You chew on your lip before deciding to sacrifice your time a little longer in order to help her out since you knew how badly she wanted to attend tomorrow’s charity gala and show off her new Emilio Pucci dress.

“You should go home,” you say quietly. “Get some rest before tomorrow. I can take care of the Book and the rest of his bullshit.”

She chuckles at your mild cursing regarding you-know-who. “Yes, because that went great last time…”

“I swear I won’t mess up again! That day was just out for me, I swear,” you pout, “But really, you should go home and get some sleep. I know you’re gonna come in tomorrow regardless of what I say, so at the very least take some medicine and sleep.” 

Manami pokes an eye out of her hand to study your pleading ones. She gives in rather easily, sighing heavily. “Fine. But if you mess up anything, it’s all on you,” she states pointedly and unlocking her phone to notify Geto you’ll be taking care of her duties tonight. 

She shortly leaves the office when you clean yourself back up to your day’s attire. The company car comes promptly on time and you begin to wave goodbye to her, but she opens the window halfway and motions you with a shaky finger to come forward.

“No funny business,” she mutters sternly through her mask. “I mean it. He’ll have your head first, then mine if you pull anything.”

“I swear, nothing will happen,” you promise to her. “Now go home. Or else that that cold will be taking more than just a half inch off your waist.” 

She rolls her eyes but you can see the faintest grateful grin from the inside of her mask as she rolls the window back up. You watch until the black car disappears from view and into the city traffic before you go back into the office to wait for the Book to be finalized with its editors.

It reaches your hands eventually just a quarter to 10:00pm, a little earlier than expected. Another company car comes by and picks you up to get his dry-cleaning as well, and you arrive at Geto’s apartment just shy of 10:30pm. 

The heavy doors seem much more intimidating the second time around. Perhaps it’s because they knew what happened last time and are just waiting to see what incident occurs today this time around. But you shake your head out of your apprehensiveness and decide the only thing that will be happening behind those doors is just you placing the Book down on his coffee table and leaving to go home and sleep before D-Day.

The entrance was the same as always—decorated with a great assortment of artistry of different mediums. In the corner was the marble dragon and beside it was the archived Basquiat piece that must’ve cost an arm and leg to purchase for the typical person. Up ahead was the entrance to the living room and in the center of it stood the coffee table. 

The coffee table. 

All you have to do is just simply put the Book on the coffee table.

Then leave.

Then just leave. Do not do anything more than that. 

“No funny business.” Manami’s warning chimes in your mind again with each step you take to the living room. 

“No funny business,” you repeat to yourself under your breath, clutching the Book tightly to your chest as if it was the most fragile thing on earth.

You eventually reach the beginning of the living room and spot the very ottoman that had caused you to have a much more humiliating night than anticipated during that one day you were given the simple task of dropping off the Book from Geto himself. You hadn’t been asked to do so since then, shamefully. It’s tucked away safely on the side of the sofa, meaning you had to intentionally yourself into it to try and re-enact your foolishness again. 

The coffee table stands before your knees and you stare at yourself in the reflection of its glass.

“No funny business.”

You gingerly put the Book down on the center of the coffee table, your fingertips brushing against the many pages of its draft and a relief begins to fill your nerves the moment you’re about to break contact with it…

… until a familiar voice calls to you just as your fingers let go.

“(Y/N)?” Geto calls from above. “Is that you?”

You freeze on the spot. You swore to yourself and Manami that there would be no funny business today, and you were doing such a good job! Did you accidentally leave mud tracks behind? There wasn’t any rain today. Did you leave something else at the office that you needed to bring? No, Manami said he only needed the book… so did you do anything at all that would cause your boss to randomly call out to you during such a menial task?

With a rigid neck, you turn to him slowly with a pained smile and the Book officially set on the coffee table. “Yes, hello. Sorry to interrupt… I was just dropping off the Book.”

Geto peers down at you from the second floor’s staircase. He’s shed his waist coat and has left himself in his grey button up that’s relieved of three buttons at the top, just shyly showing the beginning of his chest and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A rare sight—considering that Geto was often covered from head to toe in fabrics then even seeing him in a short sleeved shirt was a rarity.

“I see,” he says, scanning you from above with his cat-like eyes. 

You don’t know what to do. You just needed to drop the Book off and you were so unbelievably close to completing it without trouble. “Did you… did you happen to need something else by any chance?” you ask nervously.

“Ah, well,” Geto starts to your dismay. He pauses palpably before motioning you to come up. “I actually may need your aid on a piece I’m working on. Come upstairs.”

And miraculously, your throat closes up as you struggle not to burst into tears.

All you wanted to do is just drop the Book off! 

Despite all the curses that marathon through your head that you aim at your boss, you gather up the courage to shove down any questions of doubt and take your tired legs up the winding staircase. Something is telling you that this is a trick—that when you reach the top, Geto is actually just standing there with your termination letter, telling you that you forgot a vital rule to never go anywhere more than the living room in his house. But because you can rarely ever refute your boss in an effort to spare your sanity, you do as he says willingly like an obedient dog.

By the time you reach the top, there is no pink slip for him to display to you, but instead is an open door that faces the staircase directly. Inside, Geto stands in front of something, and you can see a tape measure around his neck more clearly, as well as a pin cushion on his wrist that usually holds an expensive watch. The room itself is rather large, with a variety of supplies garnered across a pegged wall with rolls of fabric decorating two of the walls. It’s Geto’s atelier room for his fashion line, you detail, the one that he stormed out of with Shigemo that time you had to drop off the Book. 

Without turning around, Geto calls to you, “Well don’t just stand there.”

Another thick swallow just barely passes through your dry throat. You prompt out an apology and slowly shuffle into his studio, where you see where the magic happens much more clearly and what exactly he was crafting on so late at night.

Geto moves aside for you to take a proper look at the mannequin adorned in a beautiful A-line black dress with a square neckline and ghostly, sheer sleeves. Around the waist was a loose string of pearls with a matching pearl necklace. It was a simple-looking dress from afar, but up close, you can tell that only a creative genius like Geto himself was capable of making something so minimalistic look so regal.

“Oh my…” you murmur softly as Geto pins a piece into place in its sleeve. “It’s beautiful.”

Geto hums flatly.

“I’m glad you like it,” he begins as he lifts his head to properly face you. One of his arms goes to lean against it (are those tattoos?) and you can feel his eyes scan you up and down like what he usually does in the morning as he examines your outfit. But something about this particular feat feels a little more intimate than usual, and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “You don’t happen to have an outfit for tomorrow’s gala, do you?”

“Well, um,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers. Initially, you were just going to use a plain white, sleeveless dress you had used for a work party you spoiled yourself with before you left your former workplace since it was a rather expensive and nice dress, but as you second-guess, you’re sure Geto wouldn’t approve of a dress that you had bought on clearance at the nearby outlet mall. So you meekly reply with, “... no, not really.”

You’re expecting some sort of scolding from him, possible Geto telling you that you need to be more prepared for such an event and that the last few days’ events were no excuse for sloppy planning, but instead, you’re even more startled when he says something completely unexpected that makes your eyes widen beyond your glasses’s frames.

“Good,” he says and gestures to his creation. “Because I want you to wear this for tomorrow night.”

↩ previous chapter next chapter ↪

a/n ; i have rewatched the devil wears prada for the 123894th time before the year ends and have decided to bring this series back to life because i think it's much to good to give up on 🙂↕️ i don't know if i'll start a taglist just yet, but maybe, we shall see.

i'll also will be using she/her pronouns with an afab-hinted!body from this point on. i'm also still in debate of writing smut since 1) i'm not very good at writing it, 2) i don't usually like to write it lol, and 3) but i still do consider it as some sort of breaking point eventually between geto and reader. so if there will be in the future, it will be tagged and most likely will be extremely mild.

thank you for reading as always! i hope you enjoyed this chapter and this series so far. likes, comments, and reblogs are always noticed and heavily appreciated! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!! until next time!

[meduseld]

Please drop the Fairholme party composition please

Lol okay so bear in mind this is part grounded part me being unhinged. But, if you go back to episode 3, we get some firm details: the party is repeatedly refered to as being an 8 member party (there is a shot of them later that only appears to show 7 men but one could be scouting ahead, more on that in bit) and it takes its shape from Crozier's original idea with of course Fairholme taking his place as lead and crucially, Crozier says specifically to "swap in two marines".

That gives us a very clear head start when narrowing down. 8 men, one of which is Fairholme and two of which are marines. Given the real marines manifest AND the show giving eliminating all but two candidates (all the others still living are either shown or mentioned with the ships AFTER episode 3) it has to be Privates Joseph Healey (29, from Manchester) and William Reed (28, Bristol). Which working backwards can be justified narratively, they are both Erebus marines thus familiar with Fairholme and his command, as well as older despite being privates. Plus their boss just got brutally murdered, oof.

So what about the other five? We can infer a couple of things. First in the script Crozier was considering taking both Hickey (a petty officer) and Wentzell (an AB) which means both petty officers and ABs are up for grabs. Second, the composition of Gore's party was pretty similar so we can use it as a template. Gore was also 8 men, himself, ONE marine (Bryant), one officer (CDV), one petty officer (Peglar) one medical (Goodsir) and three ABs (Best, Morfin and Tartnell).

With that in mind, we can pretty much confirm he'd be given another 3 ABs, which brings us to six members of Fairholme's party. These were likely whoever Crozier had picked (in the scripts he decides against Wentzell, who we know stays on the ships, and as expanded on below, he wouldn't be able to take them from Erebus). There are enough not accounted for directly in show or shown post ep 3 to pick from. Lets assume Crozier would give him men that were experienced but not "old" so in their late 20s, early 30s.

I basically picked these bc with that starting point: William Jerry (29, Pembroke and veteran of Ross' Antartic journey thus likely on Crozier's list), John Handford (28, Sunderland) and Charles Johnson (28, Halifax. Yes Nova Scotia. That's why him).

For the final two we know that he wasn't spared any medical officers, and that he almost certainly was not spared any other non-petty officers even warrant ones for two reasons: we see the fate of a lot of them in the show but also Erebus just lost a ton of their command structure: Sir John, Gore and now Fairholme as well as their highest ranked Marine. Crozier needs officers, and especially JFJ needs officers and some kind of sense of normalcy on Erebus so they would probably want to minimize taking even more after a Lt and TWO Marines. Not to mention, Sir John's funeral looks to be attended by enough non-petty officers to support this.

So two petty officers, and for balance let's assume one from Terror and one from Erebus. I assume JFJ would have lobbied for this as well. Presumably you would want to minimize the psychological impact or fighting that could happen from the men thinking the break up was "unfair". Four men a ship tracks, even if there were likely still grumblings about who (Erebites were probably pissed as hell Terror mostly lost ABs and so on). Then there is another factor. We pretty much know that at this point Crozier has 0 hope they are getting out via ships, and that petty officers like Peglar are pretty much idle since their jobs depend on them actually sailing. Factor in that they need to be men we don't see after ep 3 and my votes are for, after checking who is around and their ages-experience:

The Erebus Captain of the Foretop (Peglar's opposite number) Robert Sinclair, 25, of Kirkwall.

The Terror's Captain of the Forecastle (in charge of the anchors as well as the head sails) Reuben Male, 27, of Woolwich.

Despite their ages, both those men had years of service aboard ships. Not to mention it's a relatively balanced pick in similar positions that they can spare. Also keeping the repeating and similar names that this show is so famous for.

Finally, look it:

Fairholme seems to be hauling w his men, a good officer like Gore. There are only seven men in the image which could just be an error but. Let's assume they sent someone ahead to scout, possibly Jerry. I almost would have assumed the other Marine, but one of the haulers looks to be in Marine dress so. By the by, historical Sinclair was apparently only 5'5'' so let's assume he is the short king at the end of the right hand side haulers.

Thank you for joining me in my descent into madness, see you next time

[housederiva]

The second chapter of the fi I'm working on right now is up if anyone feels like reading it here, the first is under the cut. Also thank you guys for almost 7000 hits on this series this is a part of, I wasn't expecting people to care about my Rook this much xx

This one is a more in-depth first conversation between Rook and Lucanis after getting back from the Ossuary

Varric shifted himself against the pillows propping him up for the fifth time since Rook entered the infirmary, “And then what did you say?” He asked?

“You mean after I mumbled ‘well that’s awkward’ like an idiot?” Rook huffed, “I said that it couldn’t have been the only solution. There has to be a way we can reason with Spite. What about your friend, Cole? He was merged with the spirit.”

He looked over to Bianca, remembering something that wasn’t going to be shared, “Kid, Cole’s special – his host was dead when he merged with his body.”

A sigh left her as she methodically worked an ointment into the burn set into the palm of her hand. Viago insisted she take with her as she left the Cantori Diamond. It smelt like lavender, her favorite. “Not helpful, Varric.”

“Normally my advice with dealing with abominations would be, ‘don’t’ but in this case,” He looked over to her uneasily from his place on the bed, “Just keep an eye on him.”

Rook set the tincture down before inspecting her now greasy palm. She shouldn’t have cast fire-based spells in the Ossuary without the aid of her focus. It was careless to let her anger get the better of her like that, “I’m doing a great job of that now aren’t I?”

Once again, Varric shifted himself, the pillow didn’t have as much of a give to it as Rook thought it should when he sank into it - almost like he weighed nothing, “You needed to take care of that.” He gestured to her hand, returning her attention to it.

“I’m a mage Varric. I should be able to heal this without a salve.” She glanced over at him remorsefully, “I should be able to help you. It doesn’t feel right that you’re just cooped up in here while the rest of us are running around.”

He paused just long enough to make her worried that she had said something wrong, “There’s plenty of time… You said Spite made him bleed?” Varic was always so skilled at shifting conversations, it was as if he was editing a story simply by speaking – Rook was glad his injury didn’t change that.

“From the way he had jerked his head to the side? Yeah, I’d say it looked like a punch. But the spirit is inside Lucanis, right? He shouldn’t be able to interact with things physically.”

It was obvious that the cushion behind him was not curving with his weight. There wasn’t an indent in the mattress either. The moment that realization and unease latched onto her, a pain cracked at the base of her skull. It webbed its way up and over till it caressed her forehead, like the tendrils of the branching tree.

With a blink, Rook forgot the thought waving frantically for her attention.

Varric was looking at her with an uncharacteristically neutral expression when her vision refocused.

“Why did you leave, Rook?”

“Lucanis asked me to.”

“Do you think that was wise?” Varric re-situated himself against the pillows, the candlelight moving with him as he sank into the fabric. It was the same way he would bundle up when they traveled on the road in front of a fire at night. He always took a shining to a particular dark grey pelt; said it reminded him of a friend. She knew he wasn’t talking about Solas.

“Of course not. But he just – Lucanis looked so pained. He’s gone so long without his agency; I don’t want to be a hindrance to it being returned now that he’s free.” The night that Viago killed her master some fifteen years prior was just a whisper of a memory now. Her mind had put a proverbial wall between her and the events of that day. When other de Riva’s would mention those first few months she was in Antiva, it was like they were describing a story to her - not events she had lived through. One of the few things she remembered with certainty was what that gifted freedom felt like. Euphoric and terrifying at the same time.

Varric made a point of looking at her for a moment before moving his gaze to the door, “I know you’re stalling going back there Rook; you’ve put the same vial of ointment on your hand three different times.”

“I don’t want to overstep myself,” She sat down on the bed next to him and began fidgeting with a roll of bandages, “I keep trying to think about what I needed the first night I was free- I know it’s completely different from what he’s going through but-”

“What did Viago do to make you feel safe?”

She was certain they had this conversation before somewhere on the road between Antiva and Tevinter while Harding curled up between the roots of a tree to sleep. The topic had come up after Varric mentioned that the popping of the fire before them reminded him of Hawke.

It was Rook’s turn to steer the conversation, “Did you ever send that letter? The one back to Hawke and Fenris?” She asked, unrolling a section of the bandage before recoiling it and repeating the process several times over.

Varric would not let a week go past without at least drafting something to the Hawke. Harding said he had been doing so since his friends from Kirkwall reunited to retrieve her from the fade. Rook rarely saw any of them be sent though. It was a beautiful kind of loyalty he had for her. He spoke about Hawk the same way Viago would about Teia - it made her heart ache for the dwarf.

“You’re deflecting, Rook.”

“I learned it from you.” She matched his smile, though his didn’t reach his eyes like normal. She put genuine thought into his question. Trying as hard as she could to remember fragments of that night. She remembered him swearing quite a bit after her previous master fell, and she lied bleeding out on the floor. She remembered the ever so brief hesitance before he knelt out and put her in his lap, his head and clasping over her slipped throat.

The master had attempted to use her as a shield to stay Viago’s hand. Much like his attempt to poison the man that morning – it didn’t work.

“Well once he had stopped Calling me a careless idiot and the bleeding stopped…” She reached up and trailed over the scar resting on her jugular with a tip of her fingers, "He took me back to the Inn he was staying in, tossed one of the softest blankets I have ever felt at me and left to get me a hot chocolate of all things.” It probably wasn’t the best thing to do for someone who just had their throat slit open, but at least he tried. Viago was nineteen at the time and he had led a life of causing injuries instead of healing them - she couldn’t blame the clumsiness. He was so much more cynical and harsher with his words back then. Angry at the hand he had been dealt she supposed.

After much deliberation, which was more intense on Viago’s part than her own, it was decided that Rook was at oldest fifteen and at youngest thirteen the night of the incident. He liked to lean more towards the older end of the scale. Whether that was because Viago was fifteen himself when he was indoctrinated into the Crows or because it made the cruelties in which she suffered under her master slightly easier to swallow – she wasn’t sure.

“Start with getting him a blanket.” Varric cut into her reverie, holding a hand out towards the stack of quilts and knitted throws stacked in the bed beside him. It was odd that he hadn’t taken a single one for himself, especially with the draft that was in the room. In the low light of the infirmary, it was like she could see the candlelight through his skin. A cruel trick of the light.

Rook looked over every part of him carefully. She didn’t remember Varric being so pale or his beard that grey. He always kept it short and regardless of there not being a pair of scissors in sight, seemed to be keeping up his routine as it hadn’t grown in any length since their arrival in the Lighthouse. The question on the tip of her tongue wilted and rolled back down her throat.

The mirror he always used to shave was resting on the bookcase in Solas’ – now her room. He was a stickler about only using that to keep up his grooming habits. It was a gift from Hawke after all, the Amell crest was embossed on the back. There were a many a night or early morning where she would catch him staring at the engraving, lost in thought.

“Your shaving mirror,” She asked, “Would you be alright if I offered it to Lucanis – just to borrow of course?”

That elicited one of the first genuine smiles she had seen from him in quite some time, “Sure Rook, he can borrow it for as long as he needs.”

[crazy-lazy-elder-sims]

when i've been so careful with my stuff and do everything in my power to not break them but then the fuckers i live with disregard everything i say and go into my room despite telling them not to and fuck with my shit despite telling them not to touch or move my stuff and break it

"it was an accident it was an accident!!!! i didnt mean to bump your laptop!!! its an accident you cant be mad that it happened its an accident"

IT WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT YOU WILLINGLY WENT INTO MY ROOM AND WILLINGLY DID WHAT I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO you bumped my laptop on accident because you clumsily flailed around in my room when i was not there and i come home to a laptop with a broken fan mind you that i left perfectly fine before i left the house that i've been taking immaculate care of for YEARS despite being the most clumsy person in the house like i tripped on air and fell and bumped into a mirror and broke it once FUCK YOU

ITS AN ACCIDENT they yell

OKAY WHAT IF I T-POSED NEXT TO YOU AND SPUN REALLY FAST AND MY HAND ACCIDENTALLY SLAPPED YOU HARD AND BROKE YOUR JAW WHAT THEN???? I DIDN'T MEAN TO BREAK YOUR JAW IT BUT ITS VERY OBVIOUS THAT I SHOULDN'T HAVE TAKEN ANY OF THE PRIOR STEPS TO THE "ACCIDENT"

I HATE YOU

[ganondoodle]

the company i work for decided that its switching from the german formal "You"(Sie) to the informal "you" (Du) in all of our websites so now we have to scour the entire database to change it and i quite frankly hate that, not just bc the unecessary extra work but especially bc its such a weird and unecessary change

i bet its bc everything here is getting englishfied (both literally and culturally it feels like, when my new boss talks its half in english bc every second german word is just replaced by an english one despite there being perfectly fine words for it in german too, its so annoying) and bc they want to sound more personal in hopes of getting more clients bc 'company is your fwiend uwu!!', i know this here is the amercian tm site so you wouldnt understand really but i do not want to be greeted with 'du' by companies, no, thats too personal, you dont know me and im not giving you my data, stay away!!

i guess thats how i would describe it .. the formal you is like a polite distance, like someone you dont know staying outside your personal space, but when its the informal 'you' it feels invasive unless i told you you can call me that, and that goes double for companies

maybe its a small thing that doesnt seem important but i cant stand it, im just a little part time worker doing data work so i got no say in it but the companies founder also announced hes giving his post to his kids some time ago so ...... since then theres been alot of changes and new projects that solely aim to imitate whats popular and whats done by other companies, despite ours being one that is, or used to be, intentionally different, like, that was the POINT, but i guess chasing trends is just too appealing for CEOs

[funkle420]

a great way to combat genAI in the future would be educating kids (and teens and college students and all ppl) on art way more.

[fadeintolight]

pont pont vesszőcske

[chalupaconspiracy]

.

[cliveguy]

the universe is kind of crazy bc i moved to a random town to do this course + figured out (roughly) what i want to do as a career through taking a random module. and now i'm realising that this town is pretty good for that career choice and i might end up getting a real job here.

[kyuala]

SOOOOOO hard to go through everyday life trying to ignore the never-ending feeling that im just irreparably fucked up and therefore should just give up on everything

[phagodyke]

weekend melancholy is starting to kick in >~<

[ankhisms]

thinks about going on indeed and feels nauseous

[vampmilf]

Have you heard this song?

https://youtu.be/kq6UVL3H6SI?si=9wWdltnRm1_BA2u9

link

nope! and i gotta say, even though this is probably not going to sound like a very nice answer to some people, i avoid the kpop industry like the plague. not bc i think its all shit music or whatever but the whole industry around it, the commercial and ethical aspects of it just. nope. nuh-uh. i want nothing to do with it.

[surreal-duck]

messing around a bit

[naturenaruto]

just saw (yet) another post (fanart) about kushina abusing obito.....like why do people seem to think the child abuse in naruto is so funny....why is it played for laughs......why is it such a joke.........why do ppl act like this makes kushina and tsunade and sakura badass...........they are abusive....????

[itsalwaysdark]

it appears i woke up at around 4:30pm ...... based on the fossil evidence (i went back and looked and theres a posting gap between 10am and 430pm and ik i went to bed around 10am bc i did my gn post.)